Harry Potter and the Magic of Muggles
by MrsRJLupin
Summary: Helianthus, a muggle, survives a car accident as a baby and is discovered by a witch and wizard, who adopt her. Imprisoned for their role in Grindelwald's Greater Good wizards, Helianthus is torn between her job offer at Hogwarts, her adopted parents and her life as a muggle. Closely follows the books.
1. Helianthus and the Philosopher's Stone

1.  
If you were to ask me to recall my time at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I would say that I look upon those years as terrifying, tumultuous, exciting, full of wonder, the vast panapoly of human magical achievement playing out, over the years like a book or a playscript. An education, certainly, and it clear to me that now that, coupled with the bizarre set of circumstances of my early years, my time at Hogwarts has been the pigment of life against which all other events are merely hues to be judged, complementary, or not.

Horrifying too, for rumours, and more than rumours had abounded about the wizard whom my parents had named in hushed tones as You-Know-Who, and once, only once, my father had referred to as Tom. For it was this Tom who my parents had known, who had attended the school I now worked at, who had murdered a girl at Hogwarts and had not been stopped.

My parents, both civil servants, executive advisors to the Minister for Magic, had been appalled and has appealed to the Ministry for action to be taken against him. But, the start of war - the Second World War - had more than occupied everyone's time, and when it was over, it was far too late: Tom had a hold over all wizardry, promising eternal glory, power and riches for all who killed and maimed at his cause.

It had been in that war that my brother was born, fierce, brave, sunny, likeable, handsome. He would be like that now, only...he's not. My parents were devastated when his disease, at the time unknown and incurable, had begun to tell on this brilliant boy, and it was then, when my brother was twenty five that they had me. Not had me, but took me, rescued me, given me a home.

For I am a muggle, I am not their child, but I am special, and have always been made to feel so. My father told me I had been chosen, and would tickle me to make me laugh, send sparks through the air, placing my hand on his, as if I were in control of his wand. As well as a broom had a car, which was unusual for a wizard, and would sit me on his lap as he went, my hands on the wheel like I was in charge. Both acts would have my mother insisting loudly for him to stop. But he, behind his droopy moustache would begin a low chuckle which I would join in with, and then, as if reluctantly, but we all knew better, mum's tinkling laugh would join the symphony. It was several years before Mum decided that Dad could take me aloft, and while it was exciting, seeing the world from up high, like a living map, I found Dad's car far more appealing.

These were among my earliest memories, that and chicken roast dinners, chunks of ham and cheese as a small salad that I was allowed to eat on a small step stool in the kitchen on rare occasions, and the most succulent, moist, sweet and sharp apple pie in the world. Just thinking about it now takes me back to those days long ago, to my father using his wand to receive muggle radio signals - the light programme, the cricket - , to train sets (I rejected dolls) at Christmas and the biggest tree in the world that looked, in our living room, as if it went up forever,

It was a pity life could not always have been like that. At moments of quiet, on cold, wintry days by the fire or spread out on an old sheet on balmy summer ones, as I was drawing, painting, sketching, my parents repairing the house, garden, cooking, or tinkering, their activity would drift to a halt, inertia overtaking frenzied action.

I learned over time that both acts, the mania listing to a dull torpor, were when my mother, a medium-built witch with rounded curves, greying, curled hair always covered with a patterned headscarf, and my father, tall and big with a white-grey beard to his knees were thinking about my poor, dear brother.

When I was old enough, we occasionally went to see him. At first, I didn't know what was wrong with him, he would just stare, and wriggle in his seat as if he had sat on a nest of ants. Sometimes, he would look at mum and dad as if he knew them, other days we would be barred from going in, because he was having a bad day. Sizzling and cracking would accompany the imperative instruction to leave, and the witches who cared for him would wear sour faces. Not unlike my own if I had been badly behaved and dad refused to magic my toys tidy, instead making me do it myself.

If we weren't in the garden, in which my father's second home, the potting shed, and his third, the vegetable patch lay, my parents were repairing and improving our home. Our house, a little on the large side, a little on the rambing side, lay in a village alongside muggle houses. To them, our house just looked like a run down ruin, my parents told me, and that the children, and even some adults thought that there were witches living there.

There were witches living here, I would often say, and a wizard too, and mum would smile and dad would chuckle and, when I went to the local infant school I would gleefully tell my friends that I knew the witch and wizard, and Darklin the long, sleek black cat, with a kink at the end of her tail. My friends would listen agog, or laugh and run away, when I told them about my living with the witch and wizard, dinners there and playing in the garden until the headmistress of the school told me off so ferociously about making up stories and telling untruths and that I should never do it again that I cried for a day and a night barely stopping.

Dad wanted me to be taken out of the school but mum insisted that I get used to people of my own kind, and it must have been about then, aged six, that I was vaguely aware I wasn't like them, and I couldn't do magic - my pictures were not animate, no matter how hard I tried with them - and this distinction grew and became more fully defined as the years went by.

Mum and Dad would often take me to visit their friends. I would take my drawing pad to pass the time, for what the grown-ups had to talk about rarely interested me. Cakes there were, buns, sympathetic head-patting, words expressing how normal and well turned out I was, considering the circumstances, and how they'd never have guessed.

And, on occasions, the word muggle, as if it was a secret word that daren't be spoken loudly.

But more often than not sympathy was shown for mum and dad, over my brother, asking how he was and how they themselves were, that they were not getting younger, and how brave they had been to take on a child like me at their age.

"It must be so much work for you," one elderly witch confided in my mother, to which mother replied, "less trouble than natural magic in the hands of a seven year-old. Her spelling is excellent and does not accidentally turn people into toads and snails."

Looking back, that was my mother's way of defending my lack of wizardry - few people knew I was a muggle orphan - at the time I was just pleased she was happy with my schoolwork.

One friend I liked for us to visit had a daughter of an age similar to my own. It was from her that I realised I couldn't do what she could do, something which got more pronounced as she got more and more excited about going to a wizarding school like her cousins.

"You'll go too," the girl said excitedly, and indeed, this was the first major step in my life, which my parents prepared for, and one which never happened. It was more a shock for them, I think, than me, and they consoled themselves with the fact that my brother had attended, and been a model student, with no sign of his mental and physical deformity.

This then prompted Dad and Mum to have the Talk with me, when they had used as many contacts as they could bend to secure me a place at the local comprehensive. I was eleven when they told me that there'd been a head-on collision right outside their house between my parents' car and another. The driver of that one was killed and so were my parents but, my dad explained, taking my mum's hand, delicately, there I had been, just a baby, alive and well. Mum had taken one look at me and then was carrying me out of the wreckage, just before it evolved into a fireball, an invisibility spell disguising her from the chaos of fire engines, ambulances and screaming, panicking people.

I accepted the news solemnly and without question at the time, it was only later that this unusual set of circumstances caused in me a streak of delinquency as I sought independence by claiming a sort of muggle heritage through my teenage friends, making a point of asking for pocket money in pounds rather than sickles, buying typical muggle fashions rather than robes, a cassette player and fantasising over sports cars. I rebelled by trying to be a muggle to the max.

At that time my parents' age was telling and my behaviour was exhausting them. My headteacher took me in hand and set me on the right path, chiding my reference to my mother as a old witch, something I thought was hilarious and novel, but was, in fact, naive and dangerous.

And, too, it was uncalled for. I look back now at my young life and consider how sheltered I had been, away from both wizard and muggle horrors. Mum, too, had also taught me to cook and sew, Dad had taught me to keep a budget, and to drive his pride and joy of a car, though they themselves would use magic. They must have learned these skills the muggle way in order to teach me.

For, when I had learned to be better, Dad went on to explain that, at the time of the accident, me, with my name, whatever it had once been, was recorded as dead, along with my real parents. I did not officially exist. But I did exist as their daughter, and they were proud of my school achievements as much, if not more so than if I had gone to Hogwarts.

I made an effort not to fall back into delinquency despite friends encouraging me to hang out, and I ended a budding relationship with a boy with beautiful eyes who loved cars as much as I did and with whom I had become a little too serious.

It had been a chance meeting with my old friends, we went to Cornwall and Dumbledore came to find me. My parents had been placed under house arrest. To avoid befuddlement he proposed I accepted the job as assistant to the Muggle Studies teacher. My wages would go towards my brother's care and I could keep in contact with my parents as long as the Ministry allowed.

That was the beginning of my time at Hogwarts, not as a student but as a nineteen year old teaching assiatant. It is where I first met Harry Potter, in his first year, the boy who lived against the best efforts of the wizards my parents had known as "Tom". 


	2. Helianthus and the Chamber of Secrets

2.  
The train that brings the magical children to the school is due. It is the first day of September. I put away my sketchbook and look out of my round tower window to the south. Another eight hours and the children from all corners of the United Kingdom would step off at Hogsmeade and make their way to the school.

That day I remember as clear as if I was there again, standing there, by the stone-framed window, the ground below falling away to low scrubland and a large hut belonging to the gamekeeper. Beyond that, a forest, vast and dense.

It is a view I had looked on for eight weeks, as I learned what my job from Professor Burbage was to be, summer sun throwing its glorious light over the landscape, my sparse possessions given to me in haste by Professor Dumbledore in Cornwall, books, clothes and the like. And also Darklin our family cat, my childhood companion, still spry and sleek, who had at once coiled around my legs in affection and was barely far away from me in those years that we were at the school.

My parents, my brother occupied my thoughts in the early days to the exclusion of the nuances of the castle - ghosts and the moving staircases, the childrens' pure joy of learning magic, were just in the peripheral of my mind.

I was not required at the feast, my presence would be explained by Miss Burbage once the children attended lessons.

A few days before, the nature of my abilities was disclosed to a small group of staff, key teachers who would need to know of my magiclessness. The four heads of house took it without question and Professor Burbage, a witch of around thirty years old, with whom I would be working the most. I was to be in her company most of the time for, through my magiclessness, many aspects of wizard life, such as food, doors and stairs and the perimeter of the castle would be inaccessible to me. Reubeus Hagrid was also to be informed, as well as Argus Filtch, the caretaker, who seemed to hate me on sight. The only comment, above the congratulations from the staff, had been from Severus Snape , the tall, terse, hook-nosed, black-haired head of Slytherin House, and potions teacher, wondering aloud what the point was. Professor Burbage told me to take no notice of him: Severus Snape was surly with everyone. I did notice, after a time that he and Professor Burbage were not surly with one another.

I held Professor Burbage in high regard as a model witch, always kind, and patient with me, both in and out of lessons, instructed I should assist the students when they were struggling in the practical aspects, and the written tasks. All of the students at the school were expected to take the subject, but many refused, and took extra transfiguration lessons instead.

The children's ability in Muggle Studies varied, of course, due to their home life, and background, and I introduced myself as Professor Burbage's assistant, and they let me help them. I was there, wizard robes on, in the classroom, part of their lesson-life.

Often, my first job of the day was to visit the next door classroom, that in which Defence Against the Dark Arts was taught, to request that a silencing spell was placed on the adjoining wall.

I began to dread this for the task as the days drew on - something, a feeling, altogether frightening, lingered there with the teacher, Professor Quirrell, who, on the face of it, would do what I asked, but a dark sense of unease always stayed me for hours afterwards, as if a scorpion skulked in the darkness, plotting its opportunity to strike.

When lessons were not in progress I kept myself away, and in my room, drawing the landscape as I hoped that that day would be the day I would get news of my parents.

It was the kind Professor Burbage who, on learning of my brother, took me to visit him. I sat and spoke to him, but he did not respond; I took his hand but his fingers did not curl around mine, as they did Mum's. The head healer, on hearing I was here, was pleased to tell me his care had been met with gold. My gold, I thought as we flew to Hogwarts, from my wages, caring for him.

It took until Christmas until I heard anything about my parents. It had not been an uneventful term - a troll had broken into the castle, which was both alarming and thrilling and I grew to love the game of Quidditch and I remember the very first one I saw. That boy, who was to have the shadow of this thing over his whole life, had had a spell put on his broom - but he still managed to overcome it to catch the snitch.

I asked after my parents. They were to be tried under the Wizard Court for High Treason. I could not visit them, Dumbledore explained, but I was allowed to floo them under supervision.

Looking into the green flames, and into the living room I knew so well, it was an immediate comfort to look upon first the face of my father and then my mother. That lasted mere minutes, for when they spoke to ask how I was and whether I had visited my brother, they looked far older than their true years, far more fragile and I wanted to reach out, to touch them, to hold them and do what I could to ease their suffering.

Dumbledore advised me not to discuss specifics, otherwise the Ministry would terminate my connection. As it was, the floo call was short enough and I had barely time to wish them love for Christmas when the grate grew dark. It was at that moment I had decided what to do with my life: find out what they were accused of and fight on their behalf. It is what my brother would have done, I was sure. I was working here for his continued care; there must be something I could do for my parents.

Christmas came and I stayed at Hogwarts. Several of the staff did too, otherwise I might have starved. I was indeed kept company by Professor Burbage, who had arrived back after Boxing Day to do her work and we went out walking in the snowy, icy grounds. She told me about her muggle parents and how she had come to work here. She had worked in the muggle world as a nurse but wanted to stop the ignorance of wizards by educating them.

I told her I was adopted and Dumbledore had made me an unrefuseable offer to support my brother. I was glad she was around - she was good to talk to, she kept me grounded and helped me into my room: my door kept being locked and when I went to see the caretaker, Filch pointed out with a triumphant snarl, that he had been told it was to be open in term time only. Three nights in the whole holiday I had to spend uncomfortably on chairs in the staff room. The library was similarly blocked so I could not begin any work towards my parents cause. But I could begin with their biographies, namely, finding out about them and noting it down. I knew embarrasingly little and, when I eventually got to the library, a big volume on the Ministry of Magic recorded them in one sentence: Edmund and Elsie Pemberton, that they worked in counterintellligence during the Second World War.

When term began again we, as staff, were told that Hagrid's dog Fluffy had been put on guard on the third floor, something which became more important as the year went on.

I spoke to my parents on many occasions that year and inertia seemed to have bedded in: the Ministry did not seem to be in a hurry to try them; I was unable to ask them directly about it and was stuck with the weather, my father's runner bean plants and the cricket.

Later on in the school year, and my routine of support teaching, walking and drawing, being sneered at by Snape and thoroughly spooked by Quirrell was interrupted with the realisation that three young students had overcome a series of obstacles to find whatever Fluffy had been guarding. To everyone's horror it emerged that Quirrell had been parasitised by the most terrible wizard known as He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and had tried to attack and kill Harry Potter. A deeper magic, Miss Burbage had explained to me, had kept him from harm, namely motherly love. The main thing, though, which would not leave my mind, was that he did have a name, a name by which my parents knew him: Tom.

I made a point of exchanging a few words with Harry Potter before he left for the summer, and told him that he had been brave and his parents would have been proud. I told him I had been adopted as a baby and had never known my parents either. It was then that he said a curious thing. He told me that the Coming was the Going. When I asked him what he meant, he said he didn't know, it was just in his mind.

That summer I was delighted when Miss Burbage offered for me to spend the holidays with her, and she promised to help me in any way she could with my parents.

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It took until half way through the summer holidays before any news came from Mum and Dad. They had been allowed to floo me at Miss Burbage's cottage near the sea in Dorset and had been delighted to tell me that some of the charges had been partially dropped. My mother thanked Miss Burbage for showing me much kindness - I heard her part of the conversation back to Mum insisting that they called her, "Charity, please!" They had written to Dumbledore too with their thanks.

It had been to my shame that I had only managed to visit my brother once in the holidays for I had to rely on Miss Burbage to take me, but she had flooed the hospital for me and I found out that there was no change in my brother's condition. I asked the head healer about it, and, surprised, she asked, "Didn't you know? Poor Ashcroft was born like this. His parents were barred in law from having children because they were both pure blood, which carries a genetic risk. By all accounts, though, they did not realise it at the time, poor people, it being the War and everything. Sometimes wars make people forget everything." She patted my hand. "His illness did not develop until he was an adult, though. He will be mentally and physically incapable for the rest of his life. You are a good person for supporting him: our ward is unfunded by the Ministry for the type of illnesses we have here. I did wonder what was going to happen when your parents' assets were frozen - he us such a dear, sweet man; I've cared for him since he was a boy, when your mum first brought him, so kind and considerate, a boy to make any parents proud. She suspected, you know, long before any symptoms showed."

It took me a long time after that conversation to think about things properly again. My parents' son was disabled because of their heritage? They were pure blood wizards and this was dangerous? Was this the reason they had been arrested? Why now, when their son had been unwell for over twenty years?

Perhaps, then, adopting me was a way to console themselves after Ashcroft had been taken ill. Yet, the parents I knew were not like that. They had sent me to muggle schools, had supported me, loved me, sacrificed time for me. Yet, how many people knew I was a muggle? I bet the Ministry didn't. But, given that they had allegedly broken the law having my brother, I was hardly something to just casually tell the Ministry about.

Legally, I did not exist, and Dumbledore knew that. And it was terrible to think those things about Mum and Dad before they had a chance to tell me themselves. And yet, I felt there was more to it than that: the Ministry may frown upon children born of pure blood parents - I understood the concept of two people being so closely related that their offspring would suffer genetic abnormalities. But to make it illegal? There must be something more. I was right, but it took me a long time to discover what it was.

The start of term began with the arrival of the Howarts train and, a few hours later, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley driving an enchanted Ford Anglia. It had been a house elf which had stopped them getting onto the train, they'd claimed, which made sense. I had met house elves before and they were tricky little creatures - Dora's family had one - taking instructions at face value, as if this amused them.

It was a pity about the car, as I found it months later, having been mangled by the willow tree in the school grounds, a home to a large family of spiders. Later, I tried to get it going again; the engine looked very much like the one on Dad's Ford Prefect.

Those few weeks back at term I was pleased to be out of the castle and drawing, away from opportunities to ask about my parents - for I knew that if there was news I would be told, and away from the insufferable Lockhart, whose door I had to knock on daily to ask him to do the soundproofing spell, which, unlike Quirrell, he could never do properly. It confused him that I had never heard of him, and tried to make me stay to hear about his brave deeds of derring do. He was not a teacher with whom my heritage had been shared, and I was glad of it.

Often, I went down to quidditch pitches to watch practise and draw. On one occasion, Professor Dumbledore had called me up from there to his office to inform me what the students had been told, after the message, written in blood, had appeared in the corridor. I had not taken it in at first, thinking that he had called me because of my parents.

"You may go to visit them," Dumbledore said, after I'd listened to him tell me about the Chamber of Secrets. "It is nearly Christmas and it seems the Minister for Magic is not pressing on them about their alleged crimes."

While the caretaker's cat and two boys were petrified by an unknown attacker, I was elated. I was going home, and could see my parents at last, after nearly eighteen months. There was so much to tell them, and discuss. Less happily was my encounter with Snape, who accused me of stealing from the potions stores.

I was horrified: what had he any idea that I would steal, let alone potions ingredients for something I could not make. I appealed to Miss Burbage, who went directly to Dumbledore. I denied all charges of theft of course, and told Dumbledore to check my belongings. This was done, and of course, nothing was found. Bristling, Snape apologised to me brusquely, shooting a look at Miss Burbage.

I was outraged: what had any of this to do with me? It was useless my taking them, something which I pointed out to Dumbledore and, as I had no-one to give them to, they would be just a load of herbs and spices and bits of dead animal.

No-one could have wished for Christmas more than me, to get out of this school, sinking as it was into a depression over the Chamber of Secrets and the Heir of Slytherin, and back home. Christmas Eve came and the students went. Miss Burbage offered to fly me back, which I readily agreed to.

It was so good to be home, that was certain. My parents helped me feel as welcome as ever and we hugged so long and hard I though I would break their ribs and they mine.

I was able to stay for the whole holiday, and panicked because I had no time to get them presents.

"Having you back is present enough, Helianthus," Dad said, something I may have cringed at a few years ago, but knew exactly what he meant. I had brought my sketch books home and Mum marvelled at the landscapes of Hogwarts, it was as she remembered, she said. They were prevented from doing magic at the moment, while under house arrest, otherwise they might have attempted to animate the quidditch game I had painted, the one where Harry Potter had had his arm broken and the liability that was Lockhart had removed all of his bones instead of mending them. I had captured that dark little scene at the bottom.  
"You have been so good, I could never have asked for anyone better, if you were truly our own." Dad looked at mum sharply, then did a spell, voiceless, and invisible, and it felt to me as if we were in a sort of cocoon.

We sat, in the living room, on the three piece suite, Mum looking earnestly at Dad. Then, she said, "We really ought to tell her, Edmund, as much as she needs to know."

"Security," Dad said, when he saw me looking around at the invisible field of force. "An ancient spell. Undetectable."

And then he began to discuss their role in the war, how they had met back up again at the Ministry, having known each other at Hogwarts, and due to their exceptional magical abilities had been assigned roles outside the civil service, in counterintelligence.

"Coincidentally, that was when the muggle 2nd World War began," I said, but Dad tushed and tutted saying, "Coincidence? That was no coincidence! The wizard whom we were to infiltrate had steadily built up that enmity between muggles. Have you heard of the wizard Grindelwald?"

I shook my head at first, then paused, picturing myself in the muggle studies classroom handing back a chocolate frog card to a young first year that he had dropped. "Dumbledore, defeated the wizard Grindelwald in 1945" I read, through my thoughts.

"Indeed he did," Dad replied. "And we helped, at countetintelligence. We tracked the movement of Grindelwald and his followers, we raided houses and meeting places. But none of us in the ministry could do what Dumbledore did: he changed sides, or appeared to. He got as close to Grindelwald as possible, and then, at his most vulnerable, when he was organising his last battle, to strike with the muggle fascists against muggles Dumbledore assassinated him. I saw it, with my own eyes. I was with the Greater Good wizards, their mark, the Deathly Hallows, on their sleeves, all saluting. Dumbledore turned to him and - " Dad lowered his voice, "used the Avada Kedavra curse."

I sat there for a little while, next to them, on Mum's floral sofa as they told me. Mum and Dad had infiltrated the Greater Good wizards to defeat them, helped Dumbledore to defeat Grindelwald.

"We watched the Greater Good wizards disperse; a lot rounded up, even your father - " Mum looked across to Dad. It took the Minister for Magic himself to visit and release your father personally from Azkaban. And that is the reason, the reason..." Mum lowered her eyes and Dad held her hand. "We were handsomely rewarded, of course, and then pensioned off. But people still remembered. People still suspected we had really been Greater Good wizards. And now, as it seems that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is staging an attempt at return, Cornelius Fudge is taking no chances with the old rumour. You see, Greater Good wizards, who had followed Grindelwald were encouraged to have as many pure blood children as they could, and a lot of those wizards went on to join He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, inspierd as he was by Grindelwald, either when released from Azkaban - having changed their names, of course - or those who were never found. Of course, with your father's family history - "

"That's enough, Elsie," said my father, a sharp look at me. "That's enough for her to deal with. But of course, you have questions."

Yes, I nodded. I had questions. It took me a few moments to arrange them in my head before looking at Dad.

"What have you been arrested for?" I began.

"As a precaution," Dad replied, reaching for my mother's hand again. "But even Cornelius Fudge could not find anything to actually charge us for. We are a reminder to him that sworn intelligence employees can be suspected of treason, and not to trust anyone. He has tried to find evidence against us from the war, but there is none. We did our duty, nothing more. Anything else is curcumstantial. Dumbledore knows this. This is why he helped us by helping you."

If I had had more time to think then, and ask my parents some more, I might have discovered the truth somewhat faster than when I did. But Dad, eager to shake off the spell that kept us hidden, soundproof, like a cloak, said that he needed to reverse it, lest the Ministry were monitoring us just at this moment and couldn't find us. So I told them about Snape accusing me of stealing potions ingredients, and the Chamber of Secrets and the petrified children. I saw a look pass between my parents, one whose meaning was only known to them, and then Dad spoke.

"He may have suspected you were bringing them to us. The school is under threat from You-Know-Who; Slytherin's chamber was opened once before. A girl was murdered by him. Any association, however tenuous, is now suspect."

"But I could never have taken them," I pointed out. "I have no magic with which to open the door, and I could never know what I was taking even if I had been looking for something."

"And now you know how "guilt by association" works, Helianthus," said my father. "That you are our daughter, no matter that you were adopted, brought to the school by Dumbledore and working to keep your brother cared for is enough for some people."

And that was all that was said on the subject for the whole holiday. Snow came, and there was little reason to leave home. I drew the winter scenes, how the flakes had fallen and formed patterns of their own. And then came the day I had to return to work, knowing I had to leave my parents again, not knowing the next time I would see them.

"You may be in Azkaban!" I cried, as Miss Burbage circled on her broom waiting for me.

"Let them try!" Dad scoffed but, as I hugged them both goodbye, I could tell they were not quite so certain.

I was in a state of depression when I returned to Hogwarts, which even painting and drawing did not help. I put my art bag angrily away one Saturday afternoon when I couldn't get the shape of the far off Cairngorms right, kicked out at the door, scared Darklin and, wishing I had pulled on a coat, stalked down the south path towards Hagrid's hut. I then remembered he had been taken to Azkaban prison in relation to the Chamber of Secrets and veered off north, chancing upon a sky-blue, beaten up car which was clearly under a locomotion spell, zooming around as it was in a small clearing.

When I had got close enough to it that I could leap into the passenger seat I located the lever which turned off the bewichment and the car became still, dropping a little to the ground, like a child deflating after a manic half an hour high on E-numbers. Cobwebs festooned most of the corners, rust was beginning to set in under the wheel arches and fungi was beginning to grow in the inside passenger door sill and I thought of the collectors who would love this vintage Ford car, someone, the muggle version of my father and his gardening, taking the time and effort to restore it.

Over the next few months, when my father and mother came to mind, and I felt I needed to let off steam I would come down to the car, which gave me the impression it was as pleased to see me as I was to see it.

I ordered small parts and materials to stop the worst of the damage getting even worse, but it was unlikely to help the car being stuck out in damp conditions.

My caring for the car stopped very suddenly one afternoon when I was confronted by a huge spider sitting on top of it, its legs splayed like a grabber in an arcade machine. I knew enough not to get close and did not return for several months. The spider had gone and I had done all I could for the car. It could zoom around to its engine's content as restored as I could possibly make it, its windows still smashed and its paintwork dented and scratched.

Turning back, I was astonished to see two figures heading deep into the forest, unmistakably students. I couldn't decide whether to follow them or return to find a teacher but, I did neither: a few minutes later the figures were followed by the car, switching on its lights which I'd mended and tearing away into the forest. No less than ten minutes later, as I was striding back towards the castle, the car emerged, carrying the students, who I could clearly see to be Harry Potter, and his friend Ron Weasley, who were promptly ejected from the car at the edge of the forest before it disappeared into its interior.

A few days later, the same boys were being almost universally celebrated as being the ones to have overcome the monster, a basilisk, Professor Dumbledore told us, and rescuing Ginny Weasley.

When that staff meeting was over, to inform us of the facts, a derisive "hrmph" from Snape followed Dumbledore asked me to remain behind. He explained to me that a memory, one belonging to Voldemort, had been preserved in diary for the last fifty years, and had been channelled by Ginny to reopen the chamber.

"She had been possessed," Dumbledore explained, beginning a circumnavigation of his office. "Although I suspect how, I have to ask you, Miss Pemberton, did you bring anything back to this castle when last you visited your parents?" I shook my head.

"Did they ask you specifically to do something while you were here? An instruction, or a task?"

Again, I shook my head, then asked, "Am I being accused of something?"

"Not in the least," Dumbledore said. "When you told them about the Chamber of Secrets being opened again," I remember him asking, though I knew then as I know now, that I had never mentioned the discussion I had had with my parents at Christmas to anyone , "what did they say?"

"They said that it had been opened before, and a child who had had muggle parents was murdered." I remember staring at him for along time, as he continued to pace.

"And the murderer?" I shook my head.

"No, no perhaps they wouldn't. They love you more than they could possibly have loved any child, even if you were born to them." I felt myself redden at his words, as I thought of my parents again. But Dumbledore fell silent, looking into the middle distance. Then, he stared at me.

"Miss Burbage praises your excellent work this year, even taking some lessons on your own." I nodded.

"Miss Burbage is going away for a sabattical year," Dumbledore continued.

"Who is to be her replacement?"

"The one person I could think would be excellent for the job. It would mean a pay rise, of course." He continued to look at me, until the knut dropped.

"Me?" I was stunned. Dumbledore wanted me to teach?

"You," Dumbledore said, firmly.

"If you think I am up to the job," I nodded, the implications of teaching rather than just assisting flooding into my mind all at once, begging me to analyse them all, not least the thought telling me, shouting at me that I was a muggle.

"You are adjacent Professor McGonagall and next year's Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher - " he explained, telling me that Lockhart was now permanently incapacitated following his attempted assistance of Harry and Ron in the Chamber of Secrets, "- you will be attached to the Hufflepuff House; Professor Sprout will be informed. Assuming you accept the position."

Accept the job of a teacher? A part of my brain began to panic. But then, it calmed, like a rough sea on a still day, light flooding into my mind.

"Yes," I nodded, "I do accept. But - "

"Yes?" Dumbledore waited for me to continue, patience showing in every sinew.

"I have nowhere to go this summer. Miss Burbage told me she was going abroad for the whole holiday - I assume that is part of her sabbatical - and my parents are still under house arrest, so I can't return there. Last year I stayed with her, but - " Dumbledore held up a hand.

"In the same way that you began, two years ago, consider Hogwarts your home." "Thank you," I nodded, but did not turn to go. Dumbledore waited for me to contine - a good trick, one I always tried to emulate as a teacher, though never mastered.

"My parents told me they were suspects from when they fought with you in the war. Is that why Professor Snape accused me of theft? Because I didn't and -" Dumbledore held up a hand.

"Severus is perfectly clear that you are innocent of anything," he replied, slowly, "but yes, your parents' history with Grindelwald is now the Ministry's current concern."

"They said they fought for you, can you not speak for them?"

"Oh I have," said Dumbledore, "believe me. Cornelius has his own ideas. So, do you accept my terms? Work as my muggle studies teacher for one year, with an increase in salary?"

"Yes, Professor," I nodded. "I do accept."

"Welcome then, Professor Pemberton, Teacher of Muggle Studies."  



	3. Helianthus and the Prisoner of Azkaban

3 It was half way through the summer holidays, a quiet day as I was looking at the Muggle Studies teaching schedule when Dumbledore asked whether I needed anything for my lessons. Professor Sprout could accompany me to Diagonalley for supplies, he told me.

I did, and I would need to visit some muggle shops too, for household items: matches, dishwashing liquid, exercise books and pens - for all students wrote their work like non-magical children - newspapers, a saucepan, and other things which were foreign to wizarding students.

The day we visited happened to be the day that a lot of students were there with their parents buying their own supplies. Professor Sprout, a cheerful, happy witch told me to meet her at the "Muggle Wall" in an hour, where she would accompany me around the wizard shops once I had been to the muggle ones.

There was little to get in Diagonalley, but, like the new children, those who had also never been before, I goggled at the marvels, the sweet shop, the wand shop, where Mum and Dad had presumably taken Ashcroft, when he had been eleven, the Familiar shop, where animals and plants could be bought, and the Sports shop, where I, like several young children, were marvelling at a racing broom that was even better than the Nimbus 2001, I heard them say. "It's a Firebolt! Fastest broom ever! Only professional players can handle it!"

One of those students happened to be Ron Weasley, who recognised me, and introduced me to his family. I told them I was to be their Muggle Studies teacher next year, as Miss Burbage was working away from the school, which caught their interest, especially that of Mr. Weasley, who evidently liked all muggle things, and worked in the "Misuse of Muggle Artefacts" office, at the Ministry.

"How do you come to be here?" Asked Mrs Weasley, and I told them that my parents were wizards and they'd adopted me. A look passed between Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, when I told them my name, and I guessed they knew I was not a witch, but they said nothing, and neither did I.

As Ron hurried over to meet his friend, out of whose company he, and Harry Potter barely seemed to be, ushering his sister with him, Mrs. Weasley told me that I was welcome at any time to their home, the Burrow, in Dorset, not far from Miss Burbage - "you went with her a few years ago, didn't you dear?" Mrs Weasley asked. "Her mum told me - you were like sisters!", to which her husband added, "yes, Miss Pemberton. I believe my father knew yours, a long time ago." And, in a whisper added, "he never believed the scurrilous gossip," finishing with Mrs Weasley whispering, "and he and his wife adopting you, after your poor brother...we were at school with him...a Hufflepuff, but brave enough to be a Gryffindor; clever enough to be a Ravenclaw; pure blooded enough to be a Slytherin. Won every prize and award going. And he was such a good fellow, took it all modestly, with good grace, not like some might. When we heard he had been taken ill...I could only imagine what they went through. We have seven; if anything happened to any of them..."

Ron interrupted just then, saying that Harry had arrived, and I said my goodbyes. After an increasingly panicked twenty minutes I eventually found Professor Sprout in a shop called, "The Magic Garden" obscured by plants and foliage of all kinds. How we ever managed to get my shopping and what seemed like the entire contents of the garden shop back on Professor Sprout's broom I didn't want to guess, but she asked me to pull out what seemed like a cotton shopping bag from a pocket on the inside of her robe, and to shake it out.

"Put your things in, dear," Professor Sprout said. While I looked at the bag doubtfully, she made encouraging noises through the greenery.

"That's it, that's it. Now, carefully take with these - carefully now, the Snapdragons bite."

Shopping stowed in what looked like Mum's "Neverending Basket", and we returned to the wizarding school, Professor Sprout veering towards the greenhouses to take out "my beauties!"

I walked up with the bag, an uneasy feeling creeping over me as if I were being followed, which I was, only by Hagrid, who was delighted to tell me that he had been made teacher in "Care of Magical Creatures".

I told him of my temporary appointment, and that I was sorry I had missed him all summer. Hagrid went on to explain that care of magical creatured meant he had to source a few from far-flung places, including a very special one, he added, tapping the side of his nose.

That night, the last day of August, I put my lesson resources together to a darkening sky, having been outside on the grass by my classroom window at the time and ran for the door, thinking it was a summer storm, and I am so glad that I did.

I was then called to the start of term staff meeting, and, along with the usual start of term information, was told that Dementors would be patrolling the school grounds, which explained the darkness, trying to find an escaped murderer from Azkaban who was, more than likely, targeting Harry Potter.

"Why?" I asked, next to a sneering Snape. "Why that student in particular?"

"Can it be that you don't know?" Asked Professor McGonagall, in awe. When I didn't reply, she looked across to Dumbledore, who then continued the dreadful story that Sirius Black, Harry's godfather, his parents' friend, had broken his secret oath to keep them hidden from Voldemort.

"Just one moment," Dumbledore said, and he told me he had arranged for Professor Sprout to take me home again and, as it wasn't necessary for me to be at the welcome feast, I could stay until tomorrow evening, whereupon, "Pomona will collect you, and you will be ready to begin your day on Monday."

I told my parents about the chamber and how a young boy, Harry Potter, had defeated the Basilisk, the Chamber was closed, no-one had been seriously hurt, and of my appointment, just for a year, as teacher of Muggle Studies.

Both Mum and Dad, careworn, and much older than I remembered them from Christmas, were delighted with my job, and Dad was sorry to tell me that there was no change in their situation.

After breakfast the next day, Dad went to the large garage at the bottom of the garden and gave me a present, his broom, a Lightningshot, and though I couldn't fly it, it felt special. Mum then handed Dad Ashcroft's wand, which he gave to me, too. Both of them looked pleased and proud. I didn't know what to say about that - it was their son's. They knew he could never use it again. I could never use it either. But it felt important, significant, and I returned to Hogwarts feeling both elated, and altogether nervous.

But Dumbledore was wrong that I would be arriving back and attending lessons immediately. Through swarms of what seemed like black jellyfish of Dementors Professor Sprout flew us, and we were called immediately to a meeting where the nature of my being muggle brought up adopted by wizards was disclosed to the entire staff.

"An ideal replacement!" Declared little Professor Flitwick, a comment to which Snape snorted.

A new teacher, sandy-brown hair and pale eyes, looked at him in mild interest then smiled at me. I smiled back to him, whereupon he was introduced to us as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Dumbledore explained to those few who did not already know, that he suffered from lycanthropy,

I felt a jolt in my stomach, as Dumbledore told us he was bitten at a young age, and took a potion to control its severity. I looked at him. Poor man, I thought, noticing deep scars on his face and neck, and I tried not to let pity show on mine. We smiled at one another briefly as the meeting ended, but I was too caught up in making sure I was fully prepared for teaching the next day to talk to Remus Lupin.

Whereas my first day went well, with most lessons containing a Weasley who had smiled and said hello, Hagrid's had not. I went after my lessons were over to find him, and he told me, with some distress, that his hippogriff, which he had thought to be the star of his lessons, had attacked a boy, Draco Malfoy.

"We got him to the hospital wing," Hagrid babbled, offering me tea with shaking hands, "but I can't use him now, and the matter has been reported to the Ministry."

"One question," I asked, to a thoroughly miserable Hagrid, and I asked what a hippogriff was. Hagrid was only too pleased to show me, but told me to keep safely back.

My second day, the children learning about telephones, and comparing them to flooing was also good, and began with my first need to ask for the soundproofing spell from the teacher next door.

Professor Lupin did it promptly, asking me what my day was going to be like, and telling me that his promised to be interesting: first years learning defensive spells; fifth years learning reflecting charms; second years and dark magic creatures.

I told him what my students would be learning about: writing letters, stamps and postboxes, and comparing this communication method to owl post. He smiled, and our days continued like that: my request for sound proofing, his short chat on our prospective days. I was soon at ease with teaching and happy, although the days were long and tiring.

One student began to worry me: as the weeks went on, Hermione Grainger was looking paler and more tired in every lesson. I went to her head of house, but Professor McGonagall told me there was nothing to worry about: Hermione worked far harder than any other student, and she was bound to ask a lot of questions, which she had done.

I was pleased to be able to draw the players, once the Quidditch began, although it was uncomfortable trying to watch the game with dementors lurking on the perimeter, though delighted to have a team to support, Hufflepuff. The term had begun well, and had been uneventful.

Until the night that Sirius Black tried to break in.

It was a Friday night, I had come up late from the muggle studies classroom and, too late for tea, I went to the staffroom to see if there was any fruit - often there was some all day, and hot tea, plus comfortable chairs to sit on (though I knew that if you sat on the most comfortable ones you might not be able to get back out again because they got hungry.)

The corridors were unusually quiet for the start of a weekend and, as I approached the staff quarters a rush of air came down, knocking me against the wall. I could just make out some eerie sounds and deduced that it was the castle ghosts, upset by something. Reaching for the knob of my door, I twisted, twisted again, but the door would not open.

Damn Filch! It's term time - has he decided to lock me out at weekends as well, now?

Let's see if Professor Sprout could help me, I thought, as I marched back up the corridor, but to my horror I found that I was unable to get through - it was if an invisible barrier was preventing me going any further, no matter how hard I pushed or tried to step past.

It took nearly two hours before anyone came to find me, by which time a knot of anxiety was tightening in my stomach.

The light from two wands approached, and appeared to have no problem with the corridor that had stopped me. I wiped my face with my hands, hoping my distress wasn't evident as Professors Lupin and, a little further behind Snape, neared.

"Miss Pemberton, we have found you at last!" Exclaimed Professor Lupin warmly, turning a little to Snape, to whom he gave a wide smile. I got to my feet, a swell of relief washing over me that someone had discovered I was missing

"Ah, you have found her then," snarled Snape, shouldering Professor Lupin out of the way, glaring at me and holding his wand close to my face. I blinked and tried to shield my eyes. "So, you were not outside the castle grounds after all."

"I was not outside the castle grounds," I repeated, in frustration. "Why would I be there? I was unable to get into my room. Then I was unable to find any children or staff - I couldn't even get back up the corridor," I added, looking past them both and into the darkness.

"But, perhaps you did find one person, one you were planning to meet?" I frowned, an expression that was met with derision.

"Oh, you're good," sneered Snape, bending over me. " Very good. You may have Dumbledore fooled, but I am not so easily decieved." He turned on his heel, swishing away.

What a hateful man, I thought, staring after him. Professor Lupin stepped into his place, and smiled again.

"I can open your door," said Professor Lupin, raising his wand and flicking his wrist. "Alohomora!" At once, the knob turned under magic and folded back on its hinges.

"As for the children and staff, the school is in lockdown. Sirius Black entered the school tonight searching for Harry Potter."

My mind flooded with Dumbledore's words, of Harry's parents' betrayal by Sirius Black. Poor child, to have to deal with so much.

Lupin stepped past me and flicked his wand again towards the candles and the fireplace, each then glowing orange.

"Harry is alright?" I asked.

"Indeed." I remember Remus looking around my room, checking every corner, and then looking back to me.

"Anything else I can help you with?"

I shook my head and, once he had gone, I listened to the sound of Lupin's feet grow quieter as I sat with my back to the door.

The following Monday, after a weekend of murmured retelling of Sirius Black's break in, from both staff and students alike, I had finished preparing a lesson on muggle literature planned for that day. Opening the door to the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom I was horrified to find it was Snape in place of Professor Lupin, putting on each desk a copy of the third year text book.

My heart sank, my words with it as he looked at me coldly.

"Yes?"

"I was expecting Professor Lupin."

"Clearly you can see he is not here."

"Then, if you are teaching in here, would you be so kind as to perform the wall-silencing spell?"

Without a word he did so, and over the next few days when I came each morning to ask for the same thing, he barely acknowledged me, but did as I asked. I refused to give in to the urge to ask him where Professor Lupin was, but, on the fifth day I did.

"Ill," Snape sneered, as my mind scrolled through possibilities. "Incapacitated for the present moment."

And that night, as I sat up by the light of the full moon, adding to my latest picture of the Ravenclaw Seeker from their last winning match, I saw for myself the reason: a dishevelled, bedraggled Remus Lupin was staggering back through the balding forest, holding his side, as if injured. But he had disappeared again as I was deciding to do something for him.

Hagrid had some distressing news. I came to see him at the start of winter, bitter, biting winds which swept snow flurries around the castle grounds to find out the possibility of taking the students out for a lesson in the near-forest but that was forgotten when I encountered a very low gamekeeper who told me that the Ministry hearing had condemned the hippogriff. Consoling him, I wondered what could be done. An appeal?

"To whom?" Hagrid sniffed, using the tablecloth to wipe his nose. "The ruling was signed by Minister Fudge himself."

I was trying to keep busy in the run up to Christmas: lessons were busy and I spent my free time drawing and painting. The busier I was, the faster time would pass and the sooner, with luck, Albus Dumbledore would tell me that I could go to see my parents again.

It was the last match of the term, a cold, rain-lashed evening, throwing its wrath down onto the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor teams. Hufflepuff were just ahead, their seeker having just flashed by the staff seating, figure-of-eighting around the nearer two of Gryffindor's goals.

I could not draw in that weather, so I tried to watch as closely as I could, to remember all I could. The sky darkened so quickly that I could hardly see any of the players. The whistle went, and I could understand why - through the gloom, in the darkness, black, humanoid shapes filled the stadium - and Harry Potter fell from his broom.

From behind me, a sudden burst of light poured out, illuminating the darkness, repelling the dementors from the vicinity, from its light I could see that the students and staff were hurrying back towards the school, the staff rounding up students at each of the four exit points of the quidditch towers. Another burst of light, this time, its projection finished with the outline of an animal - a wolf.

I got up, grasping the handrail as I went, for the steps were slippery, the rain lashing in from the open sides. I could just let go, I felt myself thinking. No-one would notice. What use am I to anyone? Whoever heard of a muggle in a wizard school?

Getting to the bottom, I felt my legs go from under me.

"These are really rather good."

I sat up, blinked a few times, wondering where I was. My room, my bed. I looked over towards the curved window. A person was sitting at my desk.

"You fainted; you were soaking wet." I looked down at myself, and the bed. Both were completely dry.

"An evaporation charm - couldn't put you to bed damp, you would have got a cold." Remus Lupin got to his feet, a picture of mine in his hand.

"Thank you," I managed, pulling myself up. Then, making my way over to him, I tottered a little. Lupin caught my arm and steered me to the edge of my bed, sitting down next to me.

Lupin, who told him to call him "Remus, please!" asked how I was.

"Now the dementors have gone, I don't feel so awful. But - "

Harry Potter. He had fallen in the match, I said.

"That was four hours ago," Remus replied, smiling. "He has had chocolate, the best remedy there is if there are dementors in the vicinity." He leaved over towards me, a small square of "Honeyduke's" in his hand. "Are you in need?"

"That is most kind," I said, taking it and then eating the chocolate, its smooth, creaminess filling my mouth, its soothing effect beginning almost immediately.

"Thank you, Professor Lupin," I said, to which he reiterated I should use his first name.

"Helianthus," I nodded, the full effects of the chocolate taking hold, and smiled.

"A lovely name. Sunflowers."

"Not many people know that," I replied.

"Why do you work here? Remus asked. "If you are a muggle?"

"I have no muggle family," I explained. "My adopted parents are magical. My brother is on the picture downstairs, outside the Great Hall. He really was a wizard. I pay for his care with my work here." I stopped, feeling I had over shared. I got up, expecting him to go, but he didn't.

Instead, he sat admiring my last sketch of Ernie Macmillan and we carried on talking into the night, Remus telling me he never remembered a time had not been a werewolf and that he had never really made friends until Hogwarts, and "us four, the times we had..." and my mind drifted to when I had seen him, unkempt and injured, at the time of the full moon and, when he turned, there was a recent wound on side of neck. It's no wonder he was not in a fit state to teach lessons sometimes.

He told me about Harry and You-Know-Who - I listened in wonder; I had never been told that before.

"You must have lived a sheltered life with your parents then: that boy is famous throughout the wizard world, everyone knows his name!"

"Why?"

"Because he defeated You-Know-Who, prevented him from continuing. His spell backfired and Harry was not killed. This reduced You-Know-Who to a mere shadow. But," Remus continued, "Harry's life has never been in as much danger as right at this moment."

"Sirius Black...the prisoner?" Remus nodded.

"He has managed to overcome Azkaban; he's looking for Harry. It grieves me: he was our friend, looked after me on transformation nights."

"Sounds like you have had a terrible life," I replied.

"Not as much as if Dumbledore had not given me chances: the first was to attend Hogwarts at all, the second, to work here." I nodded.

"A lot of people owe Dumbledore," I said. And then Darklin chose that moment to jump in through the window, coiling her black body around my legs, which she stopped after one look at Remus, yowled and ran.

"I have that effect on a lot of animals," he said said, sadly. "A lot of humans too." Not me, I thought, you are a very interesting man, and I said so.

We talked about the castle, the ghosts, the feasts, the quidditch, how James, Harry's father had been top seeker at school. I listened, laughed, felt my spirits come alive again, like buds after winter.

"Hogsmeade?" Remus asked, as a thin red line traced along the horizon. We had not been to bed. It was dawn. Luckily it was Saturday and I was not due to supervise prep until that evening.

I've never been," I replied, stifling a yawn. "Professor Burbage used to do the things I needed with magic, but she's obviously not here this year."

"How, er, how would it be if I escorted you? The children are due to go down next weekend." I agreed. He seemed a very nice man, funny, thoughtful. Hogsmeade in his company sounded like a very nice thing indeed. I held the door open as he went.

"Good to meet you Professor Pemberton," said Remus Lupin, holding out his hand. I took it, and shook it.

"You too, Professor Lupin."

As I was thinking about what a remarkable night that had been I was almost certain I saw another figure sweeping along the corridor, snorting in the direction of my door.

I floo'd, speaking to Mum and Dad again, hoping for Christmas again with them. It had been over 2 years since their original arrest and I had been investigating the law over such matters. By now, the Ministry needed to charge people under arrest or let them go.

"How are things going?" asked Mum. "We understand that there is an escaped murderer on the loose, and Dementors everywhere."

"Yes, I'm well," I assured her. "Teaching is good, though tiring. A lot of the students know more than me."

"Use that to your advantage" Dad advised. But there was no mention of my return to them, not even by Dumbledore, who closed the fire link with no further comment.

December came and, when I went to ask about soundproofing, Remus reminded me of me of my agreement to accompany him to Hogsmeade the next day. We walked, with the rest of the staff, the mile to the village, talking about our day, and the last quidditch match of the season, Slytherin and Gryffindor, which, if they won, would put Slytherin ahead going into Christmas.

The Hogshead, a dark, cobwebby pub, was where we intended to stay for just an hour, but spent most of the day talking, school, and how A-Levels had been more about my social life than actual studying, and if I could go back and change that, I would.

Remus frowned at my paying the bill, which was hardly expensive, for we had spent more time talking than drinking and I told him it was a debt that needed paying.

"I appreciate what you did for me at Halloween," I added, Remus holding the door open for me as we stepped out into the icy street. He turned, and with a smile said, "What are friends for?"

Christmas Holidays couldn't come fast enough, and I waited until I could wait no more for Dumbledore to tell me whether I could visit home.

The children always left early on the last day of term and, once they had gone I climbed almost to the top of the Headteacher's tower, at which the Griffin moved aside and the door opened - I knew better than to wonder how Dumbledore knew - and he explained that I would be unable to visit them: security had been tightened and I felt very disappointed: tomorrow would be Christmas Day and I was dreading no food, restricted access to my classroom, outside, even my room, and I made my way to the Great Hall.

Sitting at the end of the staff table, I wondered what to do next, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Remus Lupin.

"I'd be delighted if you would join me for lunch," he said, and asked me what was wrong, when he saw my face.

"I am reduced to nothing at holiday time," I began, "Filch makes sure the spell for my room is taken away, and of course the house elves don't acknowledge me as I am not," - I lowered my voice - "magical. And I am unable to go home this year."

Remus looked at me for a moment, just as a house elf, ignoring me, brought in a huge steaming bowl of food, and shot up.

"Wait here," he said, "enjoy this delicious stew." And he returned half an hour later, as the house elf came looking for his bowl, asking for more.

"All sorted."

"Really?" I asked, cynically. No more randomly sleeping on chairs in the staffroom when I can't find a witch or wizard to open my door? No more taking food from the Great Hall at times when the you all are being served for times when I can't?

"Thank you," I said, "for whatever you did."  
I put my hand on top of his, feeling a surge of gratitude as strong as when Dumbledore had asked me to work here, saving me from my memory being taken and my family lost to me.

We walked back along the corridor, stopping by my brother's picture. I showed him. The names of the young wizards in the picture, including that of Ashcroft Pemberton, scrolled across the bottom of the frame.

"Did you know him?" I asked. Remus shook his head.

"No, he's older than me, looking at these dates. I began here in 1969." He turned to look at me. "How is your day looking?"

"Rather empty," I said, truthfully. "I cannot go to see my parents as they are under high security house arrest, nor Ashcroft, as it takes magic to access his ward at St Mungo's."

Silence reigned, and then Remus asked, "Could I be permitted to escort you? It would be no trouble."

"I couldn't possibly..." I began, but then saw he was serious.

"But how to get there," he mused. Then a thought occurred to me

"Can you fly a broom? It's old."

We walked down to the broom store, an outhouse in the foundations of the castle. At one side, the students who played quidditch stored their brooms by team position, four areas reserved for each of the four school houses. Next, arranged across the broad wall at the back student brooms were tethered to the wall according to their year, the NEWT students occupying one part of the right wall, with the staff brooms next to them. On the wall through whose door they had come were the quidditch lesson brooms, a random assortment of old brooms, basic brooms like Cleansweeps. On the corner, between the NEWT brooms and the Cleansweeps were the staff brooms.

From behind several of them I eased out Ashcroft's broom, handing it questioningly to Remus, hoping it was all right. I understood as he broke into a beaming smile.

"It's magnificent!" Remus exclaimed, running his hand carefully along the shaft. He looked at me, his face alive.

"You know about muggle cars, Helianthus?" I nodded. "This is..." he looked up and down it again, impressed, "...the E-Type Jaguar of broomsticks." Remus smoothed his fingers over the polished handle, his fingers pressing the embossed lettering of "Lightningshot", then over its sleek bristles. "So few were made; such superior quality."

I never understood the significance, not then, not now. I had flown so many times with Dad and he had never discussed broom types with me. To me it was just Dad and Mum's broom.

"Come on," he said, taking my hand, hurrying out of the broom store. "To St. Mungo's."

Over snowy landscape, hedges like tiny dark matchsticks sticking up and snow-covered houses we flew. Once or twice I closed my eyes as we swooped past trees whose branches were laden with snow heaps. I leaned back towards Remus as we soared higher to make the most of the thermals, not prepared enough for the cold, and he held onto me tightly around the waist, his long, warm arm secure around me.

When we got there Remus made the most of the ground floor seating area, waiting outside as I climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, not mapped as it was not supported by the Ministry.

Ashcroft was well. He seemed to be talking to his healers, his head moving backwards and forwards, and saw me, but as usual did not acknowledge or talk to me.

I waited and watched and the healer who had spoken to me last year told me he had been doing well and did I give permission for therapy that would ease his symptoms? I wanted to speak to Mum, but that was impossible, so I thought what my parents would have wanted, and that would anything for Ashcroft. I agreed too for more of my wages to be deducted for this.

"You look happier," said Remus, as he held me tight next to him, though I spent most of the flight back to Hogwarts wondering if I had made the right choice - Mum and Dad were his next of kin, not me.

Remus's voice woke me out of my thoughts when we neared Hogwarts, as he pointed out a herd of unicorns in a clearing in the Forbidden Forest, their horse-shaped bodies glittering against the snow.

"Come on," Remus said, after taking the Lightningshot down, taking my hand and we walked closer to them. They were even more beautiful than from the air, their bodies iridescent and, when they moved they left behind a shimmering vapour. Because I was shivering, Remus pulled me closer, wrapping his cloak about me, and we stood there for what seemed like an age, the ethereal glow from the unicorns the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I leaned towards him and felt, first a hand holding mine, then an arm around my shoulders

During that day, something changed between us - from Hogsmeade when we were colleagues, friends. After visiting my brother, something more.

We came down several more times that holiday on the Lightningshot but never found the unicorns again.

One day, when we were walking together under the east tunnel, which led to Hogsmeade, Remus told me about the circumstanes in which the Potters, opposing the Death Eaters and Voldemort, died, and what had happened to him since.

The sky was dark with Dementors so we sat under an overhanging rock, the wind scuttling round us, but part of the rock sheltered us from it and Remus put an impervious charm around us, so we could sit there, undisturbed.

His exile felt like, to me, my worst times at Hogwarts, isolated, friendless, alone. But here was a better place to be exiled than in a lonely cottage in the Lake District, where he had been, and I was horrified to hear about it.

Remus told me about Sirius, who had always remembered him after their time at school and had visited him to keep him in line when he transformed. His three friends, Sirius, James and Peter had become animagi to keep him company, which was why Sirius was reported as being a black dog, because he could transform into one at will.

"We would go out to that tree, the whomping willow, on moon-nights."

"It has a name?" I asked, horrified, because it was that tree I had had to avoid all of the previous year when I gave my best effort in refurbishing the Ford Anglia.

"It leads to the Shrieking Shack, the most haunted house in Britain, whose shrieks and moans could disguise my howling. People could never honestly believe what he was imprisoned for," said Remus, sadly, "he was so honest, so loyal to James and I. "

We sat there, looking at the snowscape, and then I turned and kissed him, just lightly, on the lips, breaking off for a moment. And then Remus kissed me back, pulling me closer, wrapping me up in his cloak. We sat like that for a long time, watching the sky spit snowflakes about. And, after waking up in his arms the next morning, I knew.

With a kiss I left, looming work preparation shifting in the eaves of my mind, with a reward of meeting that evening in the Great Hall for dinner (my necessity), I turned the corner into my part of the corridor. And then edged back.

Snape's voice reveberated in the background, its low growl unmistakeable.

"...Lupin, is it not your time...?"

"...not that it is any concern of yours, Severus..."

"...there is properiety to consider..."

...like you and Miss Burbage?"

I was about to close the door to my room when I heard Snape say, "... and she chose to stay all night in your quarters? I do not know who I feel more sorry for..."

"...again..." Remus's voice remained calm, "...none of this is your concern - "

"I'm WARNING you, Lupin...you and...her..."

"Warning me of what, Severus?" I heard Remus give a light laugh and Snape a throaty kind of growl and then fading footsteps. It was a long time before I understood the significance of Severus Snape's concern.

January and February faded together, dark, and cold, and dementor-filled. Two episodes that Remus had had to deal with - I watched from my window on both occasions to see if I could see him. Though, what would I do if I did? At Christmas, with the castle virtually to ourselves our relationship was intimate, intense, but now, with term well under way, with the teaching of and caring for the students, with the dementors still haunting the school and the threat of Black, our professional relationship was clipped and formal.

We had weekends, when we were not supervising prep or duty and our limited time together was exhilarating, and just our own. We would fly the Lightningshot; Remus would take me to Hogsmeade, to the Hogshead. What I remember of those times, just us, together, his arm round me, us laughing at things that had happened in lessons, at staff, at the walk or fly there. Just us, together.

I went to see Hagrid, as the sentence for Buckbeak loomed and, as I crossed the iron-hard grounds I spotted a strange thing: a dog, shaggy, black, bounding over the rocks. It was Remus's time, and for the first time he had been attacked, and severely at that: I could only deduce who had attacked him.

The only teacher I could find to help him, panting, covered in sweat, body and leg torn through his clothes, the only teacher whose door glowed, suggesting occupation, was Snape. Reluctantly, I banged on his door. Met with a snarl, I explained how I had found him and that he needed help. For a moment, I thought that he was going to slam the door in my face, but instead, he strode past me without a word, and attended him, barking at me to fetch Dumbledore. Between the two of them, Remus Lupin was conveyed to Madam Pomfrey.

"In your own time. I am sure he would appreciate your care," was all Dumbledore had to say to me, while Snape took a step towards me, as if to say something, but instead walked past me. I had to endure another month of asking for the "Silencio" spell on the wall from a mute, bad-tempered Defence Against the Dark Arts temporary teacher with barely-concealed hatred of me.

And all the time I spent with Remus, soothing him as he recovered I wondered, did he chance upon Black? Or...did he go out looking for him?

Remus became better and, though I came to see him less the question of his motives of that night was never far from my mind. We talked about school and lessons, but the conversations became increasingly staid as he did not confide in me anything of that evening either. I date our drifting apart from the night of his attack.

I had even less reason to go to the Defence classroom now for, on learning that Snape was teaching again I began to send a student to request the Silencing spell on the wall: one day Alicia Spinnett came back to tell me that, "Professor Snape told me to tell you, Professor Pemberton, that he has made the spell permanent."

A week after Remus's attack Dumbledore called me to his office to tell me that my parents were being moved to a high security prison within the ministry. "One step away from Azkaban," he told me that night, so, while Remus recovered I spent a good deal of my time in the library in the "Magical Law" section, trying, with my limited knowledge of both legal matters and knowing little of my parents' history, to come up with some answers.

So, with both the silencing spell in place and my preoccupation with my parents I was unaware when Remus returned to teaching. I made the effort to visit him in his quarters several times but my insistent tapping was never answered, like the worst knock-knock joke in history.

It was when Professor McGonagall intervened to ask me if I was well that I broke down and sobbed in her office. My parents, I explained, I am so worried about them. But she advised me not to go out of the castle while the dementors were around and assigned me a teaching assistant and of all people it was to be Argus Filch!

A day later, Professor Sprout offered to fly me to St. Mungo's. I offered her the Lightningshot which she admired greatly as a classic broomstick. I was glad to get there when I did: Ashcroft was sickening.

"Is this the new treatment?" I asked, but the healer said that his disease took people that way and unfortunately the new treatment was not working for him.

Drawing was my one consolation, and it was the fourth full moon after Christmas, after a particularly trying day with Mr Filch being as unhelpful as he could, when I spotted from my window a figure making his way down the grassy bank, past Hagrid's hut and towards the Forbidden Forest. Guessing who that would be, and feeling a wash of sadness come over me, I looked away, continuing to capture the row of treetops on paper, when I saw something else: a black dog following him.

Darklin followed me into the Forbidden Forest as I found Remus, not far from our cave, breathing heavily, torn sleeve and blood in his hair. This time, instead of avoiding me, Remus allowed me to help, and I nursed him that night and made him comfortable. He held my hand, and the mistake I must have made in asking him about Sirius Black, but it was clear he had met with him again that night.

"I was in the forest tonight," Remus told me, his voice weak and his speech broken. "I met with Sirius Black, tried to talk to him."

"And he did this to you?"

"I have since come across new information, reliable information, that means it may not him, he may not be the Potters' murderer, Helianthus," Remus said, ignoring my question.

"Then tell someone, Dumbledore."

"I need evidence."

I wantd to kiss him again, like we did so many times at Christmas took his hand poor, damaged hand instead, which curled around mine as he slept.

Remus was better than last time, and quickly returned to lessons. He visited me on his first day back and, as I was painting, charmed my brush into painting the scene I was composing, so the features of the landscape moved quickly like old zoetrope.

One night when Remus was on duty I used my time to work in the library to see what I could find out to aid my parents. Very little, as it turned out. Disappointed, and resolved to speak to someone, a wizard solicitor, for example, I noticed a child out of bed. Harry Potter, for that's who he was, was also seen by another teacher and, although I could not hear what Snape was saying, he was clearly giving the boy a severe admonishment over something he was holding. Snape was abruptly interrupted by Remus who took the parchment. I turned to go, and caught the words, as he spoke to Remus, "I don't think the map is always right, it shows someone, I thought to be dead."

However, I was mistaken that I would just return from the library unencumbered, for Snape followed me, accusing me of helping Sirius Black break into the castle.

I stopped, angry now, from my failure in the library and this wizard's huge grudge against me for some reason.

"Why me?" I demanded.

"Because..." he poked his wand into my shoulder, then into my neck, "he is an escaped prisoner looking for more Death Eater followers of the Dark Lord."

"And you think I am a Death Eater? Isn't - "  
I broke off, biting away the name my parents knew that wizard to be, biting away the name "Tom", "...isn't He Who Must Not Be Named trying to murder muggles? I am a muggle! Why would I be working for someone who wants to murder me?"

"You tell me," snarled Snape, nastily. "Maybe...you are working for someone."

"Like who?"

"Like your father, for instance? The Great Edmund Pemberton, got so close to Grindelwald then cowardice overcame him? Used his ministry influence to get him out of Azkaban? Collecting a pension given by an embarrassed Ministry?" I gaped at him.

"No!" I prorested. "My father was..." I broke off.

"Yes?" Demanded Snape, pressing his wand into my neck. It wasn't for me to defend my family, but I did it anyway.

"My father did his job in the downfall of Grindelwald superbly. More than superbly, if some people believe he was a traitor. Can you not conceive the notion of a double agent?" Snape did not reply, his face merely paled, to a sickening ashen hue. He opened his mouth to say something, but Remus Lupin ran past. Snape dropped his wand away and hurried after Remus, who ahead of him, had three figures. And another. Sirius Black. Snape rore off after them. A few seconds later, so did I.

Whether or not all of those teachers were out of the school with a mind to the children or not, I knew I had to do something to safeguard them.

I could not see where they had gone, and waited a safe distance from the Whomping Willow for sometime. I was only aware of Darklin having accompanied me when, through the thick, gnarled roots of the willow she came out in hot pursuit of a rat, which then disappeared over the ground. A great mouser was Darklin, so undoubtedly there would be a little rat corpse before too long.

I had barely a chance to think of that, though, when through the willow roots emerged Remus, with the three childrem in tow. And Sirius Black.

Before I could think of anything to do about the prisoner, however, a cloud, which had partially obscured the moon drifted past, exposing it fully and Remus began to change. I was about to approach the children, to do something for their protection, when Snape stepped in front of Harry, Ron and Hermione, shielding them from the werewolf. I took a step forward and Snape held his wand out towards me for a split second. However, I was knocked over as a black dog jumped towards the werewolf, towards Remus, and I felt my head make contact with the floor.

"You had us all very worried, Miss Pemberton," Dumbledore told me, when I finally regained consciousness in the hospital wing. "You sought to protect the children, as was your duty as a teacher, but you went above and beyond that." And he went on to tell me about Peter Pettigrew being the traitor and, as an animagus, my cat gave an admirable pursuit, but he had got away. How Sirius was indeed innocent, and how Buckbeak had been saved in the nick of time.

"However, I must ask you to relinquish your pictures. These could be siezed by the ministry and taken as evidence, and could be especially bad for your parents if you were known to have images of who the Ministry still believes is an escaped Death Eater. They must be destroyed."

Yes, they were remarkable. One picture had Harry, Hermione and Ron running down to Hagrid's hut, another with Buckbeak chained outside. And yet another picture had Harry Ron and Hermione having entered Hagrid's hut and at the same time Harry and Hermione also hiding at the edge of the woods.

I duly handed them over, sad that the spell would be gone too. But there was more. My parents' trial had been set for 24th August, though I did not know what they were accused of and Dumbledore regretted that I would not be able to see them, nor speak to them.

"They believe, someone believes, I am helping them in the service of He Who Must Not Be Named," I replied, thinking bitterly of what Snape said to me.

"Indeed. Also, Miss Burbage will be back in September. You have done an admirable job, Miss Pemberton," he repeated, "as Muggle Studies teacher. You need to retain a low profile. The castle is to be closed in order for the ministry to rid us of Dementors. I have been asked...by Remus Lupin if you would like to spend the summer with him."

I was amazed, as the last time I had seen him he was transformed into a werewolf.

"Is he..."

"Well, yes. If you were to accept I think that the arrangement would be acceptable for your safety. His cottage is remote; you are aware if his condition. Professor Snape has enough of his potion for six months."

"Thank you," I said, "I have enjoyed teaching, Professor. I will look forward to assisting again next year."

But I did not give my answer about holidaying with Remus until he asked me himself.

"You can paint, you can draw. You can walk. I can fly you to your brother." I agreed, for I knew my feelings for him, strong indeed. And his for me?

"I lo - " he began, but I put my finger to my lips and shook my head.

"Never fall in love in a war,", I said, quoting my Mum, who did it anyway. It had haunted their lives. But Remus took my hand and then leaned over to my lips, melting my words away.

That summer, my living with Remus Lupin was overshadowed by my parents being charged with the historical war crime of being Greater Good wizards and followers of Gellert Grindelwald. 


End file.
